


bright lights and a world of pain

by phadedphoque



Series: rick and morty don’t have sex (until they do) [1]
Category: Rick and Morty
Genre: Aged up morty smith, Catheters, Choking, Clothes cutting, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Humiliation, Incest, M/M, Medical Kink, Medical Procedures, Mpreg, Omorashi, Other, Oviposition, Restraints, Somnophilia, Spanking, Watersports, alien vs predator mechanics LMAO, dubcon, enema mention, pls let me know if you need anything else tagged!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-29
Updated: 2019-12-27
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:21:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21605209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phadedphoque/pseuds/phadedphoque
Summary: Morty’s like: can I offer you an egg in this trying time?Hahaha, but no, seriously. This is a very intense fic where Morty gets Knocked Up by an AVP knockoff and Rick, as always, is to the rescue.now continued!
Relationships: Rick Sanchez/Morty Smith
Series: rick and morty don’t have sex (until they do) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1602316
Comments: 8
Kudos: 75





	1. Chapter 1

“if you love me, you don’t love me in a way I understand” 

\- Richard Silken Bot

_It’s bright_ . _Way too bright._

And his head hurts _so_ much, his whole body does.

He’s back again, but the funny thing about being unconscious (as he’s had the misfortune to learn) is that you don’t often realize you _were_ unconscious in the first place. At best, it takes a while to remember what happened. At worst, he’ll never know. It’s purgatory, the moments after, waiting to restart. 

He’s not a stranger to being fatally wounded, this sort of thing happens every so often in his line of ‘work’. If he could, he’d stop reacting to it like this, he knows deep down he can’t die: Rick wouldn’t let it happen. But he can’t stop his body’s reaction to dying. The cold, the searing. The spasms his muscles make in one last attempt at saving his life. The shaking and cold sweat. Death’s grip on the back of his neck, hairs on end. His body resetting on its own volition, a limp doll disconnected from his body, his consciousness just along for the ride. 

And then it starts, his body moves on it’s own, the troglodyte part of his brain that shocks his reflexes to activate his fight or flight. He can’t go far, however: when he tries he’s met with cold metal cutting into his arms and his throat. He pants heavily and scrunches up his face, trying to focus on his breathing: he’s starting to learn how to force himself out of panicking now, almost.

Before his eyes are even open, he suspects he knows where he is, on a table somewhere, hopefully in the bunker, under the blinding white of a surgical lamp. It’s not even a real surprise to him at this point, it happens more often than he’d like to admit.

He squeezes his eyelids tighter, trying to get away from the harsh light. It’s all he can do right now, in the foggy dawn between asleep and awake. He’s learned to cherish this moment in a sick way: it’s often the only lull of calm he gets before the storm. 

So far his initial bodily reactions do confirm one thing: he’s assessed the mobility of his limbs. His arms are definitely down for the count along with his head and neck but his legs and torso are unbound. Unable to speak, throat feeling tight, restrained by metal, he can barely breathe, he continues to shake against his restraints, knowing it wouldn’t do any good but forced to try anyway. 

A hand comes down from the corners of the edge of his periphery, a puppet show shadow but this time tangible. Still, it’s too bright to see anything but shadows. It’s like he’s in a cave, trying to pick out what’s just shadows and what’s really alive. He sees only the shadow of the hand, tries to make out the finger puppet play it’s acting out. Is it a barking dog, a hungry hawk? Something more helpful, something that won’t hurt him?

The hand touches finally touches down on him, stops teasing him from afar. It feels _warm_ , _good_ , _safe_ . and when he remembers warmth, he’s remembered what _cold_ is, terrible terrible _cold._ Everything else that isn’t where the loving hand is, is horribly cold.

Then _pain_ something _awful— tight_ and _stabbing_ . 

The hand strokes down over his face and coo’s at him, brings angelic healing unto him. It brings him from a boil to a simmer: from rasping, uneven gasps to heavy, slow, puffs.

The pain takes more concentrated form in his abdomen, coagulates into a dense weight in the core of his stomach. He feels bloated, no, beyond that— full to the breaking point. Young and embarrassed and so insecure, all he can think about is how terrible he must look, skin stretched, back arched. He wants to curve the other way, give his back some relief, his arms around his stomach, pick up some of the weight in his hands up, if only to alleviate it any small bit but he _can’t:_ he’s _stuck._ Pathetic self loathing intrudes on his brain: 

“ _You’re really_ strapped _for time now”._

His ears buzz and it makes him realize he hadn’t been hearing, the sudden realization of sound jarring. The static fades out, revealing the voice it hid.

“--orty, christ, wake up, _Morty_ ”.

A name, his name. A voice, _that_ voice. He’s been helpless to it time and time again, though this time he can’t tell if it’s friend or foe. 

“Shh, shh, it’s ok M-moooorty”

Gentle hushing breaks through his spiralling chain of thought. An offering, alleviation, but not nearly enough. It’s a voice he knows too well as both savior and as harm. His breath is still hard and on edge. 

The hand leaves his forehead, stolen from him too soon. The hand touches his face, and it’s warm but it’s not the feel of skin on you but rather the tacky touch of latex gloves he’s come to learn to hate. It’s these gloves hands he associates with the aftermath of something stupid, dangerous, painful, or all three, and the repercussions that come with it.

He tastes the disgusting gloves on his tongue, tangy and medical, feels the heat of light on the back of his throat. The plastic appendage plunges further down his throat and it tickles on his tongue which is very dry now, _god_ it’s dry. It gets back to his uvula, to the very back of his throat: the empty space in the back he’s now too aware of, his gag reflex twitching in preparation. The finger touches nothing at all at the back of his throat but just having it _there_ makes him so aware. The finger swirls like it’s stirring up an elixir, something to cure him, or maybe a poison to harm him. Well, it’s certainly stirring something up inside of him now. His nipples perk in anticipation. A deep shame tingles at the back of his brain. _That wasn’t right._

The finger retracts from the space, leaving Morty’s mouth feeling empty in it’s absence.

“Well, looks like you’ve still g- _guurp_ -got your gag reflex.” When he withdraws it, he rubs over Morty’s gums, the space between his gums and his lips and Morty shutters at the sensation of tenderness in a place rarely touched. When it’s out, the finger shakes his own drool back at him, ironic: The hand to help him is the one that spits in his face. 

And then, as if to put the final nail in his dignity’s coffin, Morty’s body moves like it’s been hit with lightning, jolts off the table as far as the restraints Rick’s put on will let him move. He breathes like he’s had the wind knocked out of him (because it has, for the most part, been knocked out of him) followed by a coarse throated yell. 

The sound isn’t Morty’s usual whining, it’s much worse. It’s nearly feral with instinct, pure fear and fatal pain. It sends Rick into a panic in a way he hasn’t felt in a while. He feels out of control and it’s crushing him. And so he pushes back, holding down Morty’s stomach now, absolutely much too hard for someone so pregnant, if he may use the term.

Morty’s breathing hard, metal collar constricting his throat, making it hard to get air into his lungs, cruelly claustrophobic. His legs are still wiggling in the air like a dying roach despite the rib-crushing pressure Rick is applying to his chest, adrenaline stewing in his blood. He screams again, not in pain, but in terror of his grandfather. 

Rick’s yelling now but it’s jumbled, the blood in Morty’s ears is pounding and blurring the sound. All he knows is _loud_ and _scary._ Rick hops up on the table now, and he’s straddling Morty, the weight of his body heavy on top of Morty’s legs and now he’s completely pinned, shaking against Rick’s groin, sprier than any old man should be. 

“I-i-i-t h-hurts s-so mu-much” he stutters out, a pained whimper. 

“BE _STILL_ , MORTY”, a command.

He tries to get his body to still, and he does, for the most part, except for his breathing. 

Rick looks at his face, sees the tears welling in his eyes. He manages to feel just the slightest bit bad. He tries to be gentler. 

“Shh, shh--just be _still_ while I cut this _off_ ” 

He pulls out a pair of scissors and frantically pulls at Morty’s shirt, searching for a give in the fabric. He succeeds in finding the edge of Morty’s shirt and cuts upwards, the metal cold on his stomach and sternum. Morty wishes he could flinch away but the cold is literally in the center of his body, cutting through him and he’s so wide open. 

Next are his jeans and underwear: he cuts both at the same time, urgency clear. He feels more frigid steel on his stomach and inner thighs and he feels his dick twitch away from away from the sharp edge. He feels the blades dangerously close to his balls and for a moment he’s petrified Rick’s going to cut him, feels the scissors tug at some of his pubes. 

Embarrassed he pleads, “please.. Please get off me.. it h-hurts, it hurts”.

Rick manages to get Morty naked fully and finally gets off the table, relieving him of some of the pressure. He gets off of him, takes a minute to take it all in. He needs a moment to strategize. 

He watches Morty’s stomach: round, plump, taut. He watches something move ever so slightly beneath the skin. He feels the hairs on his back perk up in disgusted intrigue. 

Morty’s heaving uncomfortably, twitching as much as he can against metal towards his stomach, legs tensed up trying to protect his decency. Frankly, he looks pathetic. Rick feels his own cock twitch with interest: a dog drooling over an unmanned steak on the counter.

He’s grown so much from when they first met, he’s bigger now, still lanky but starting to maybe grow into himself. He’s harrier than when they first met too, he thinks. Thighs tickled with dark pubes that stick out on his pale skin. Unconsciously he lets his hand graze over the hair. 

“Rick, Rick-- what’s happening Rick??”

“Calm _down_ M-oourp- Morty, _christ_ ”. 

Morty is quiet again, closing his eyes from the harsh light, trying his hardest to remember everything that’s happened, why he’s here right now. 

They’d been in a cave and-- he cringes when he recalls what happened, realizing why his throat hurts so much on top of the metal restraint.

He tries to think back to the moments before he’d been knocked out but they’re coming up blurry. He remembers tripping and _pain_ but that’s about it. Morty can’t remember things quite right, but Rick does.

***

He’d turned his head for a moment, just one _measly little moment_ \-- _dammit Morty_ , and when he’d looked back it had been too late. Rick had known there’d be Xenomorph’s here, hell, it was the reason he’d come here in the first place. This was _not_ , however, how he had planned on encountering one. They were _supposed_ to capture one in order to artificially gestate offspring, not to do it the way Predator-God had intended. From across the cave Rick watched Morty struggle, his hands frantically scratching at the facehugger to no avail. His body moved before his mind could catch up to it, the world a slow motion blur. 

He’d cradled Morty in his arms and watched him writhe as the thing made its way down his throat, his eyes wide with panic and blood vessels bright against his pupils. By the time he’d noticed it, the facesucker had already made it’s way down Morty’s esophagus, in his stomach now. By the time he’d actually gotten to Morty it was already on its way into his abdomen, the skin distended and wriggling. Shock stops Rick from moving while the last bit of air leaves Morty’s lungs, wasting precious moments. He forces himself out of it, knowing damn well what’s at stake here. He’d hoisted his panic ridden companion into his arms, clutched his head close to his chest and portaled out of there before he could completely comprehend what he’s doing. 

Back in his lab now, he’d swept everything off of the gurney he’d repurposed into a worktable in a few frantic swoops— obviously, they’d need it now. He lies Morty’s body on the table, careful not to damage him anymore than he already is. The thing is still inside of him, stuck in his throat. It’s making his comatose body _squirm_ and it hurts just to watch, he can’t imagine what it _feels_ like. 

He straps Morty’s arms down to still him: he looks so small on the table. He’s terrified to leave him but if he’s going to save him he needs something to save him _with._ He fumbles through his work cabinet until he finds something, anything to work with until his hands land on a spider gag. 

Darkly he laughs: _of course_ . He feels bad but there’s no time to unpack this-- needs to do anything he can to save him. He sticks his fingers into Morty’s mouth around the thing, stretches it as far open as it can. It’s slick and slippery and hes trying hard to work it in, god _damn it_ , _fuck._ After fumbling with the gag to get his mouth open, he fashions a pulley with barbed wire at the end and whatever else that’ll latch onto the tentacle. He pulls it out like his life depends on it, because it does, in a way, doesn’t it? 

Blood pounds in his ears when he even thinks about it. 

Life without Morty--

No no no, he won’t even let himself entertain the thought.

He rips it out of his body, heaving until it finally relinquishes the boy. It’s only the ovipositor, done with its main job of impregnating him, it’s mostly just a tube at this point. He incinerates all but a chunk of it still just to be safe. With the remaining chunk he’d been able to whip up a type of vaccine against alien enzymes. This would prevent the alien from bursting from inside him, keeping the eggs dormant. He cleans a spot on the crook of his arm and lets the needle sink into his vein, imagines life rushing back inside his boy. Now they’d just have to let nature take its course, so to speak. 

He takes inventory of Morty as he’s passed out, the imminent threat held off. Now that Morty can breathe easy he can too. But not quite: the hardest part is far from over. He looks at Morty’s sleeping face, still tense even in rest. There’s much to do before he wakes up. He turns to grab supplies when he’s met with the sound of something clattering against metal. He turns back to see it’s Morty, his lower half falling back onto the table. 

“M-morty?”

The boy is still asleep but he watches his body convulse, his stomach quiver through his t-shirt and stretch inhumanely. _fuck_. The contractions are already starting. Less time than he thought and still so much to do. He decides to strap his head down to the table so he can’t hurt himself while he’s away and hurries out of the room to get supplies before it happens again.

When he comes back it’s with a plethora of supplies that might be useful, trying to prepare for the unexpected. He’s alone now and doesn’t have to feign modesty, he takes a moment to look at Morty. He’s technically a _young man_ now, and all the features are there to confirm it. The dark hair on his body, the edges of his face starting to harden. But seeing him rest makes him look young, innocent, pliable. It’s the way he thinks of Morty in his own head. He moves to make contact with Morty, not even really registering for a certain part of his body, just wanting to _touch_ and _hold_ what’s _his--_ but stops himself short. 

_This is certainly no time to ogle your_ grandson _, of all people._

It is, however, a _perfect_ time to feel him up. Strictly for professional reasons, of course, ensure things are in (mostly) proper order. He starts performing a routine check up on Morty, starting with feeling his glands. He massages his neck carefully, gentler than he’d ever be when Morty’s awake. After, he works his way down to his arms, feels his muscles that have developed from missions and grunt work Rick makes him do around the lab sometimes. Even though they’re slight, they’re still noticeable, probably something a girl his age would appreciate. Not that he’d have time for anyone other than Rick, or that Rick would _let_ him. He smooths his hands down from feeling for broken arm bones to his stomach, rubs the hem of his shirt between his thumb and forefingers busily. He glances towards Morty’s still sleeping face and proceeds. He lifts up the shirt and gets the first good glance of his stomach, rounder than it’s usual paunch, beautifully circular. It’s a curve like this that’s so symbolic for _life_ , for _creation._ In a way it’s euphoric when he’s reminded of the potential there. But what he’s feeling now is much darker: jealous and he won’t let himself explore why. He touches down on it, looking at Morty’s face to gauge his reactions. His brow twitches when he makes contact but he’s still out. 

Rick palpates his stomach, his face moving but still not quite conscious. Finally, he’s able to grab onto one of the eggs, assess its size. He winces when he feels it, just slightly too big to hold in his hand. They’re gonna be hell coming out of him, that’s for sure. 

He moves down from his chest and glances towards the hem of his jeans. They look tight against his stomach. Freelingly, he unbuttons the fly on Morty’s jeans, the moves to unzip them, a greyish pair of briefs peeking out from underneath. He lets his hand graze through the hair that trails up to Morty’s belly button and breathes out slowly, anticipating. Then pushes down his underwear-- he needs to palpate lower. He finds his gaze drawn to his dick. He’s circumcised and flaccid, not a bad dick at all. He touches it gently with a gloved finger, tickling it just the slightest and it moves just a bit, small and cute. 

_Christ_ what are you _doing_ , _Sanchez?_

He lets the underwear back up but leaves the zipper undone, they’re probably uncomfortable on his body anyway. Instead, he moves back up Morty’s body. He lifts up his shirt a little further when he still hasn’t woken up. He watches his chest rise and fall shallowly. He feels like he can see how fast Morty’s heart is racing. He lets his hand graze over his chest, confirm his flittering pulse. He reassesses Morty’s face, starting to tighten back up to his cold, cruel reality. He lets his hand graze over one of Morty’s nipples, standing tall in the cold bunker air. He squeezes the nipples between his fingers: to look for any sign of lactation, again, all strictly professional. He watches Morty’s brows pinch together and his mouth open to a limp O. He smirks as he watches his expression change, so sensitive even in sleep. He puts his shirt back down, adjusts it to cover him just a bit. 

He’s a good looking kid, really, he reminds him a bit of what he was like when he was young, maybe just a bit too squirrely-- mostly his own fault if he’s being honest. He rolls his head to stretch his aching back, a reminder of the weight of their difference in age, their difference in life experience. _Every_ day _a_ battle _to keep him_ putty _in my_ hands, he singsongs in his head. But he’d try so hard, as hard as he possibly could to make sure Morty never hurt as much as he did: failing himself by his very own hand. 

He’d rebuilt him, had his hands inside his vitals so many times. 

There’s a joke between other Ricks, Theseus’ sidekick: if you’ve taken out all the parts and put them back in, is it still the same Morty? 

Ricks would _tell_ you they wouldn’t bother, say it’s easier to get a replacement. But they’d be lying. There’s something special about a connection between _you_ and _your dimension’s Morty._ From the moment you’d met him, the first time he’d held Morty as a baby he’d known. 

(He missed the birth, didn’t even know Beth was pregnant again. When he’d come back he’d been floored. He remembers the day the picture in the Smith living room had been taken. How it felt to have something so fragile in his hands. It made him feel out of _control_ , the weight of Dark Matter, a gravity crashing down on his core. But how his smile made him feel warm, made him feel needed-- wanted. A person who doesn’t hate him, not yet.)

He doesn’t believe in fate, not like _that_ : he believes in science and theories and his own hypotheses and predilections more. Maybe it’s knowing he’s got _you_ in him, you see it the width of his eyes, the shape of his nose. Maybe it’s the thought of having something pure to spoil: someone’s wool to dye.The last thing that keeps his disbelief about fate suspended is the last inkling of feeling having your own, original Morty can’t account for: an irrational connection he doesn’t quite care for. 

Yes, he’d dye him in his wool, not knowing that later, he’d be willing to die at his feet. 

So yes, he would take Morty apart and put him back together again. It’s something he’s come to relish. His ownership solidified, his god complex satiated _just_ enough to bring it back from an inevitable implosion. 

Morty’s still passed out, probably for the best. He’s going to be in a lot of pain later. It’s best to let him rest like this, let him savor the soft blanket of unconscious for a while. 

He brushes Morty’s hair off his forehead, plastered there from cold, panicked sweat. He lets his hand linger on his face for a while, traces over his slackened brow line, swipes his thumb under the heavy bags under his eyes. _He’s too young to have bags like that_ , he thinks. But that’s partly _(mostly)_ his fault. There’s a faint scar on Morty’s cheek, he remembers the day he got it. It was soon after he’d regrown Morty’s skin ( _for a third time)_ and he’d yelled at him for already messing up his fresh flesh. Not like it was Morty’s fault really, of course it wasn’t. Rick’s the one who made him climb the cliff anyway. _Only following orders_ , he quotes. But he yells and gets angry because he cares. He wonders if Morty knows that. 

He’s left so many marks, too many.

He’s reminded of a time when Morty was young, just a toddler: the second time they’d ever met. He’d left soon after meeting him for the first time, too overwhelmed and certain he’d ruin something that small and fragile. He came back a few years later, a surprise on Morty’s 4th birthday. Jerry had bought him a fake lawn mower toy and Rick had gotten angry, so irrationally angry. This is how it starts, the servitude to mediocrity. Tools shaped like toys to shape kids into citizens. He’d gotten drunk and kicked it apart. Morty, _his_ grandson, deserved better than that. He deserved _Rick._

But who was he to determine what Morty deserved, what Morty wanted? With unabashed hubris he answers himself: just _the_ smartest man in the universe, that’s who. Mentally, he gives himself a facetious pat on the back-- he hates it but he’s spent a lifetime hardwiring himself to always be so self serving. But deep down he _wants_ to be right: logic would dictate that he’s the one who _should_ get to have him, didn’t the universe owe him at least this? 

Younger-but-old-enough-to-know-better him risked attachment: immediate benefits outweighing the immediate risks. But he’d forgotten to taken into the long term account of how this would ruin him later, make him vulnerable, scared. But he’d done it anyway because of course he did, he ruins _everything,_ including himself _._ To make one thing you need to destroy another. 

He feels like he could cry, the prickling of tears welling up on the back of his face. 

It’s horrible, isn’t it? The way he wanted to cage him, make him _his._ But part of it was that he was petrified, absolutely terrified of what the world was going to do to him. 

No, he couldn’t be God, because if he was… Morty wouldn’t be here right now.

He wipes his face with the back of his sleeve roughly before continuing with the examination. 

He’s starting to worry about Morty not coming to yet, and decides to test his reflexes, starting with his gag reflex-- and then he doesn’t have to. 

***

Morty’s wide awake now, but it doesn’t seem real. He’s learned this dissociation helps, just a little bit. The pain’s gone from jolting to something a bit duller, and now he feels very sore, awfully sore. Most of all he’s just confused, frantically wondering what’s happened to him. Wants Rick to _help_ and _care_ and _fix._

“T-Tell me what’s ha-happening Rick, please I--”

Rick’s hand comes down to his stomach, pressing on it. Morty groans, now very aware of the pressure in his stomach. He can’t look down at it, only up, towards the blinding light, his new world, but it feels like it’s huge. His stomach hurts and worse, he feels like he could shit himself. 

“You gotta lay these eggs Morty, only way outta you” Rick cooly explains, his hand still on Morty’s stomach. 

Morty’s initial reaction is to be livid: envious he can, _gets to_ stay so calm in their current situation. He feels like he can feel the life leaving him, the pain radiating throughout his body excruciating. He thrashes against his restraints again on confirming his worst nightmare. Strapped to a table, _exposed_ to his grandfather: the most dangerous man in the universe. 

He feels something shift inside his stomach, feels it lurch down his insides. He’s thankful he can’t see, thinks about what the _stretching_ of his skin looks like. 

And yet, as horrible as it must be, Rick continues to watch him like a hawk, predatory. 

“Looks like it’s gonna ha- _urrp_ -ppen soon, Morty”, he taunts. 

Morty instinctually tries to fold in on himself, protect his vessel, save his decency. It’s as if his ignorance of how beautiful he really is only serves to make him more beautiful, the way he curls up on himself, so nervous in his own body, the vulnerability so much more precious and lewd this way. 

Rick pulls his legs far apart, Morty lamenting his last attempt at hiding his decency. He’s too weak to deny him. 

“Keep your legs _wiiiiide_ apart, Morty”, Rick patronizes. 

A whimper escapes him as he sees Rick’s hands move to where he can’t quite see what they’re doing, but can feel them on his skin. Morty feels his cheeks being spread apart with Rick’s fingers, can feel his asshole twitch against the air on its own volition. Then, with a generous amount of lube he takes his gloved fingers work their way down to his hole. Shamefully, this isn’t the first time Rick’s been in his asshole, but he still wouldn’t say he’s used to it. He exhales, trying to calm himself.

“Push _out_ against my finger, Morty, come on-- you know what to do.”

Rick rubs his bud, feels it push against him, toys with it. It’ll help in the long run, make the stretching easier. 

Morty, on the other hand, tries so hard to relax, tries to take a deep breath and bear down like he’s told. But it’s _hard_ when his airway hurts so much, hard when he has so much more on his mind.He feels the pad of Rick’s finger breach his hole, the muscles tense with the intrusion. Just like the metal table it’s _cold, frigid_. 

He lets out a gasp.

“Can’t you c-c-cut them out?”

Rick scoffs, as if the idea is absurd. Morty honestly can’t tell. 

“No can do, your insides are stretched too thin right now, ‘ _too delicate’_ ” he air quotes.

“Besides, these AVP eggs are _very valuable,_ lots of - _uuurp-_ flurbos. When life gives you lemons, Morty--”. He doesn’t finish the phrase, just gestures vaguely with the other hand that isn’t currently knuckle deep in his grandson’s hole. The good news is that he can’t feel an egg directly with his finger, the bad news is that he can’t actually tell how far they’ve descended into his colon yet. In order to get a more _in-depth analysis_ (heh), he grabs Morty’s legs and surprisingly brings them together. He then lifts his legs higher, pushing them down towards Morty’s distended belly in an attempt to shift things down. 

Morty lets out a deep sound, an uncomfortable groan. The lifting of his legs has reminded him of how really _trapped_ here he is, at the mercy of his maker.

He still can’t feel anything and decides upon a camera examination to determine how long they’ve got until delivery. 

However, when he pulls his finger back out he realizes he _can’t_ do that without a proper amount of prep. He’s a little thankful Morty can’t see the glove, he knows he’d freak out even more if he saw the mess. 

He smiles sheepishly before delivering the news.

“Alright now...w-we’re just going to… clean you out, buddy” Rick pats Morty’s thigh apologetically. 

Morty detects the change in his demeanor almost immediately and watches him with scepticism and suspicion. 

“What… do you mean?”

“Just a little, - _uurp_ \- a little enema, Morty, nothing big”

“ _Riiiiiick”_ Morty whines, despite knowing this is only the tip of the uncomfortable iceberg.

“W-w-what do you want, huh? to shit all o- _oorup_ -over me? Huh? Is that what you want? Grandpa covered in shit?” Rick starts laughing before he can even finish the sentence, of course he does. He has the liberty to think it’s funny. Morty, however, does not. 

Small but firm he retorts: “I don’t _want_ one.”

“You know, you’re being kinda, kind of a brat, Morty” Rick says, changing his gloves.

_“Me,_ Rick? _I’m_ the one being difficult?”

Rick scoffs.

“Well, yeah, this _is_ kind of all your fault”. 

He gathers an enema bag and cleaning solution, knows how important it is to keep things sterile before procedures. He leans over his body, the shadow cast from the overhead light twice the size of Morty. He watches his eyes widen and goosebumps bristle the wake of his touch, a sign of Morty being alive. He revels in it.

“I--! You--!” Morty feels like screaming. His _OWN_ fault? 

“It’s not like I-I-I did this on purpose, Rick!”

He throws what’s left of Morty’s tattered clothing aside and swivels in a chair to the end of the table where Morty’s legs lie. 

He spreads them apart as far as they’ll go again, his feet hanging off the gurney. 

“Rick you _jackas_ \-- 

Morty is cut off as Rick sticks his pointer finger straight into his butthole to the knuckle in one swoop, whimpering at the sensation. 

“ _Ack--_ be gentler, _please--I--”_

With his other hand, Rick dips the tip of the enema tube in a generous amount of vaseline, knowing he’d need it to ease Morty’s protesting. 

With the finger still inside Morty, he pulls off to the side to make room for a second finger.

“ _Rel-a-a-ax,_ Morty, you’re making this h- _arrp-_ harder on yourself”

When both of those are in past the knuckle, he starts on the third.

Even through his gloves he can feel the warmth of Morty’s insides, feels how soft he is. He fingers him for longer than strictly necessary under the guise of better safe than sorry. 

Not that he’d ever really listened to that credo before (and, boy, was he sorry now.) 

He takes the end of the tube and slides it inside of Morty’s rectum once he feels like he’s been softened up enough to take it. 

Morty’s mostly silent now, seething with anger, but he hears him exhale a sharp _ouch_ under his breath, likely from the inflexible plastic at the end. 

After he thinks it’s far enough inside he inflates but Morty hisses. He must’ve not put it in all the way. After he adjusts it into proper position he starts the flow of the water and leaves Morty to suffer. It goes a bit faster than Morty would have liked but he’d rather have it over with quicker so he complies, even though he can feel himself cramping harder than usual. He lets out groans of pain. Shockingly, Rick puts down what he’s working on to rub Morty’s stomach. 

Strangely gentle he coos but Morty is too distracted to be listening. Instead, he enjoys the feeling of skin on skin, skilled hands on his aching stomach, actually trying to help him for once. 

Suddenly, Rick grabs both of Morty’s ankles and pushes them up towards the sky once again. He hisses again, more out of surprise but it also at the sensation of the tube pinching at his butthole just a bit.

“R-rick!” Morty squeals, more of a question than an admonishment.

“Helps with cramping Morty, _geeze”_ Rick says under his breath, not looking Morty in the eye. And then, he feels the cramping subside, followed by a pang of guilt for mistrusting his grandpa. They both stay silent for a while. 

Then he starts to feel full, like _really_ full. Pitifully, he reminds himself that he doesn’t have much more room for any extra water. 

Whining again, he pleads to Rick to make it stop. 

“What? Already?”

“Rick I have to _go.”_

Rick sighs but complies with the request. 

However, instead of releasing the metal to allow Morty to use the restroom, he tilts the gurney up after stopping the flow of water, letting gravity do the work of cleansing Morty. He hates it, the feeling of not having control over his body. It makes him feel like a child.

Finally, when the water stops flowing out of him he lets the gurney return back to its horizontal position. 

Rick removes the tubing from his ass and where usually he feels relief instead he feels empty and full in all the wrong places. He just wants to have _control_ over his own body again.

“C-can’t you undo these, Rick, please?” Morty begs, trying to appeal to Rick’s sadistic side. 

“Oh ho ho” he laughs “you-you’d like that wo- _oou-_ uldn’t you? And let you run off to do something _else_ stupid?”

Morty feels heat rush to his face. Leave it to Rick to continue to lorde this over him, to kick him while he’s down. 

As if to punish him further for such an _absurd_ request, Rick raises the table up so that Morty’s (very exposed and freshly stretched) crotch is eye level with Rick. He feels himself falling backwards, almost like he’s being waterboarded (as he’s had the displeasure to learn what that’s like) and he shouts in surprise. He feels blood rush to his head from the angle. Then he feels something at his asshole again, Rick’s hands spreading it apart once more. 

  
  


In his head, Rick tries to treat the situation like a checklist to keep himself calm and focused: after the enema comes the colonoscopy. He slips the camera in, corners feeling sharp on Morty’s already raw hole. It’s uncomfortable to say the least, Rick knows the feeling. 

Even though he can empathize, he’s still annoyed with Morty’s complaining, considers knocking him out just to quiet him. He _won’t shut up_ about how it feels: he can feel it in his insides, pathetic, miserable whining. He feels guilty and he doesn’t want to.

The poking and the prodding of something much more rigid than the other tube making it’s way inside his entrails is awful at best. He still can’t quite remember what it was like to have the tentacle work its way down his throat, can only feel the leftover soreness of it, but he thinks it’s probably something like this but… higher up. It’s _sharp_ and he worries that the device will poke through to the inside of his belly button, stretching his already very full stomach.

After what feels like ages to the both of them, Rick is able to surmise that they’re in the middle of his intestinal track, right as rain. As good as an alien pregnancy can be, anyways.

“Urk.. _Riiick_ it _huuurts…_ can’t you give me something?” 

Rick looks at him incredulously, as if his request is out of line. 

“W-w-wwhat do I look like _Morty_ , some, some sort of-of-of _DRUG_ DEALER?” He waves his hands empathically to make his point.

Of _course_ Rick had something to give him, a whole slew of things he could give him to make him feel like he was on cloud nine. In fact, on some planets, Earth included, he _was_ a drug dealer. But no, he wouldn’t be giving Morty anything for the pain. Now that he knew his life was spared, he’d make him pay for the time he’d wasted, _and_ for being so damn ornery. 

Having the scope come out of him was a whole ‘nother ordeal on it’s own. Feeling it slip out of him again has him feeling petrified, like he’s going to have an accident. He feels his own face heat up, Rick not meeting his eyes.

Thankfully he’s given a break afterwards, a moment of reprieve. It’s the first moment he’s had to not expend all of his mental energy on not being completely in pain or uncomfortable. 

Thinking more clearly he let’s anger get the best of him. He’s so livid, so angry at Rick. It’s always like this, he reflects. He feels like frankestein’s monster, he and Rick tied together in some sick twisted master/slave relationship, or perhaps closer to a witch and her familiar. He can’t die, Rick would just shock him back to life somehow, necromance him back to the misery of his servitude. He doesn’t even get to look forward to the promise of rest that death brings. It’s like they’re in some sort of satanic blood pact, soul bound together through karma across every universe. He wonders if all Morty’s have it this bad or if he’s just particularly unlucky. 

He thinks about how Rick’s been treating him today, since _he was impregnated by aliens_ , happy he’s been a bit softer, less harsh than usual. He’d been spared from too much taunting during his cleaning. He knows how horrible Rick can be when he wants to be.

He recalls the aftermath of ‘the Mars Incident’ and shutters.

_Not another Mars Incident anything but_ \--

He clenches his eyes tightly, grits down on his teeth as he feels tears well in his eyes at the memory of his own failure. Yes, he’s mad but more than anything, he’s angry at himself. Everything that’s happened to him today is his fault, he’s always been so clumsy. It’s true that he messed up, and now Rick has to fix it again, patch up all of Morty’s fuckups. He wishes he could be better for Rick sometimes, just wishes he wasn’t so damn pathetic.

For as much of an ass that Rick can be sometimes (if anyone knows the extent of his douche-baggery, it’s him) Morty also appreciates what Rick _has_ brought into his life. He’s travelled more than anyone he knows, seen sunrises on Saturn, fought off space pirates, saved princesses. But it’s the little moments he spends with Rick that speak louder than any of that. Getting the universe’s best ice cream, lazy sundays watching _Ball Fondlers_ . Rick is company, family, comfort: Rick is warmth whether he likes it or not. Nobody in the world can know Rick like he does, and something about that makes him feel strangely _proud_ . He doesn’t know if it’s a blessing or a curse but the red string of fate weaves through every universe, dipping it’s needle down and confirming the bond that is Rick _and_ Morty. They’re one another’s constant: the metronome that keeps the beat of each other’s tune. 

His contractions are about 30 minutes apart now and getting shorter. He feels the things shift downwards in his stomach, awful and churning. Almost worse than the pain is the loss of control he has over his body. He feels like he could have an accident any moment, even though he knows he can’t, just the eggs sliding down of their own volition. Ricks already cleaned him out… _there_. As awful and embarrassing as that was, he’s glad he won’t shit himself now on the table.

However, Rick has still neglected to let Morty pee. Ever since he regained consciousness he’s felt pressure in his bladder. The eggs had descended from his throat to his stomach, down to his small intestine, their weight doing nothing to halt the urge. Right now he can’t even move his legs to alleviate the pressure, or to keep it all in. Even if he could move he’d motion to figure that his legs would be too tired like the rest of him. 

He looks over to Rick, tinkering away at something. He doesn’t know if it’s related to his situation or something else and it makes him feel put aside. 

Another egg shifts a bit further down and he breathes in to brace for it. 

It’s the simple change of his breath from grunts to a gasping wince to get Rick to turn around, as if he’d memorized all the sounds Morty makes, probably cherishes the ones where he’s pained. Morty swears he can see his eyes gleam.

A small pool of wetness surrounds his ass, he can feel it, knows Rick can see it. Morty watches him smile and put down what he’s working on. 

“Oh ho ho ho, Morty, can’t h- _ooou_ -old it in anymore, huh?”

Morty feels his face heat up, he moves his neck down as far as it will go (not very).

“Shut up” he retorts, his voice lacking any bite to it as he tries to hold back hot salty tears. 

“I _guess_ I’ll take care of it for you.” 

Rick eases up on him, tries to pull back a bit on his cruelty. He remembers what’s happening and knows it will only be worse. 

He pulls out a Foley catheter set and brings it over to Morty. Just over the edge of his restraints he can see him take out the set and he breathes out heavy with the energy he has left. 

“Rick, _NO_ ” Morty cries, “not _that--”_

Rick reaches for Morty’s penis, holds the glans between his thumb and his forefinger and rubs a bit of jelly on the tip. 

Morty shakes his hips as much as he can, trying to stop the inevitable. (He doesn’t go very far.) He stops soon after, fatigue pain and sickness stopping him. 

“It’s for your own good you _mo-uurp-ron_ , I’m not m— I don’t want to clean up your piss on the table.” 

He lubricates the end of the catheter and pulls Morty’s member straight, inserting it inside his hole. Morty hisses at the burn: nothing should _ever_ fit inside of there. And then it gets worse: he starts sliding it down. Morty breathes out _haa haa haa_ as the thing works it’s way down into his urethra. His head hurts when he thinks about how much it’s like when the facehugger made its way into him in the first place. And finally it clicks into place and he’s pissing himself, on no volition of his own. It’s awful and he feels ashamed. When the stream starts to trickle out he hears something that sounds like air and he doesn’t know what it is until he _does_ and his body jerks and he yelps as he feels a balloon _pinch_ the inside of his bladder. 

He hears Rick mumble a quick apology and deflate the balloon and readjust it. He’s surprised he got even that. 

Rick leaves him and goes back to tinkering with his invention. 

It’s only When his contractions are 15 minutes apart that he has Rick’s attention, more of it anyway. The gravity and embarrassment dawns on him as it occurs to him that he’s in his rawest, most defenseless form in front of his grandpa. He’s beyond scared, wishes for comfort. Rick turns away for a second, comes back with something suction-cup like and he’s _not_ impressed. 

Rick decides to use pump on his asshole to soften it up some, make it more pliable for the incoming eggs, hope it makes it a bit easier for Mort. It’s certainly not for his own desire to watch his hole pucker. It’s pink and red and getting darker the more he pumps and he can hear Morty’s protesting. 

It pinches and pulls and prickles, makes him numb like pins and needles. And then it’s happening, oh it happens all at once. 

The labor (if one could even consider this caricature as such) doesn’t so much as begin as it _rips_ out of him. If he’d thought they’d felt big before that was nothing to the way they felt _stretching_ the rim of his asshole. Nothing can stop it, but it’s a rock and a hard place, he can’t imagine it getting out of him without literally tearing him a new one. He lets out a high pitched groan. 

The shifting and sliding before was nothing, _nothing_ at all as horrible as this. He bites down on his teeth and he thinks he hears one break, god he hopes not, thinks about shattered eggshells inside him, imagines rick elbows deep in his stomach picking them out. He’ll _always fix him up._ He sneers at himself, his self loathing sizzling. He uses it to fuel his too weak body when Rick commands him to bear down, running only on the fumes of his anger.

This is it now, the real deal. Rick’s had the last couple of hours to mentally prep for this but he’s still nervous but tries not to let it show. Morty’s not making it any easier, he can tell he’s in terrible terrible pain. Rick is so scared, guilty, heartbroken, but everything he says is coming out wrong, coming out terrible and mean. 

The best he can do right now is be quiet, do what needs to be done. He tilts the table upwards in preparation for delivery, now he’s putting Morty’s legs in actual stirrups now, the last bit of mobility taken from him. 

Morty’s crying now, really, genuinely crying. It hurts _so bad_ and he _can’t do it, just can’t_ an endless chant. 

  
  


It’s Rick who can’t take it, Morty’s sobs like the tell tale heart, twisting guilt in Rick’s heart like a knife in a wound. In a panic, Rick yells, tries to get him to shut up. 

“You i _diot_ Morty, you ruined everything--”

Rick’s pacing now while Morty flounders, grunting and straining and sobbing. 

“Couldn’t, couldn’t have just _followed orders_ like I told you to, couldn’t have defended yourself. You’re _weak_ M- _oooourgh-_ ty.” 

Morty’s tense and tight and hyperventilating but between pants he says something along the lines of you think I _wanted_ this to happen, or so Rick is able to make out.

Of course he hadn’t wanted it to happen, nobody wanted it to happen. But he’ll still blame Morty for it, he’ll do anything he can to spare himself from responsibility.

“Oh-oh yeah Morty this really throws a wrench in my whole day--!” Rick barks out, snide and searing. He’s terrified for Morty and he’s only making it so much worse, much more painful. He wishes it was anyone other than himself here with morty in his darkest hour, wishes it was someone who could take care of him the way he deserves. Instead he’s left with Rick, the worst person for the job. He’s taking it out on Morty like it’s his fault, like any of this is his fault. The entirety of Morty’s miserable existence is _his_ fault, traceable back to the moment he got Diane pregnant. 

“F-F-Fuck you _Rick_!” Morty barks out, doubled over in pain

Rick scowls. “Wh-wh-what was that you little _shit.”_ ”

He raises his hand without thinking, fist clenched. He watches Morty flinch away, feels his own heart sink.

Still flinching Morty whimpers: “I-it’s your f-fault this is happening, it always is--”

He wants to shrink down, wants to dissolve into the table. But instead he’s spread so open and unprotected, feels bloated and big and wishes he was small.

“O-oh I’m _sorry_ MO-ourghty, was _I_ the one who tripped over a rock? Huh? Got, got, Got knocked _uuurp-up_ with some, some fucking alien dick?

_You made him go, brought him there, let it happen. It certainly hadn’t happened if you_ hadn’t _been here._

_“_ That’s not what I meant” he retorts, as if he’s reading Rick’s mind.

Rick feels lividity course through his blood and guilt wrench his stomach. He’s angry because Morty’s right, he’s in the wrong. It is his fault like it _always is_. He grits his teeth together, stubborn as ever as he continues to make an ass of himself to save his own ego. 

“Maybe, maybe if you weren’t so USELESS a-all the time, we wouldn’t be IN this mess!”

He wants to rip his own throat out, pluck his tongue from his mouth like a pearl from an oyster, toss it out into the ocean. Instead it’s Morty’s throat he rips open, along with his windpipe, straight down to the space between his lungs, through his ribcage and into his heart. He’s being unnecessarily cruel now, more salt in an ever festering wound.

“Yo-you’re lucky I even bring you along on this type of shit you worthless _idiot--_ ” 

He watches Morty’s lips quiver, watches his face get ugly. His nose scrunches up and the corners and the skin by his eyes wrinkles. It makes him look young, and it’s strange: a little boy’s face on the body of a young man he watched grow, _made_ grow.

“You-you-you’re STUPID Morty, that’s why people don’t keep you around—”

Now he’s screaming in his face, his spittle landing everywhere.

“I-it’s, the whole reason _I_ even keep you around is that tiny, _stuuuuupid_ brain of yours”

Rick’s panting now, catching his breath from his outburst. He’s met with hot tears and heavy breathing, so close to Morty that he can feel the humid air coming from Morty’s silent sobbing. 

Rick steps back, breathes in, assesses, observes the mess he’s made. 

Morty’s soft crying wrings out in the metal of his bunker echoing off the walls, too tired and in pain to cry any harder.

With a shaky hand he reaches out to touch his most prized possession.

“I-i know you didn’t mean it buddy, you’re-- you’re doing so good for me.” 

Morty grits his teeth and bears down, truly only thing he can do. 

Things are taking too long now and Rick’s starting to get concerned. He steps away from the post he’d been half heartedly occupying (comforting Morty) to go back to something he’s actually good at.

He sits back down on the chair he’d placed between Morty’s legs and inspects his hole again. He uses his thumbs to measure the space in Morty’s pelvis and then he realizes-- there’s no way Morty’s going to be able to stretch enough to accommodate the eggs. He feels his face scowl in the realization of what he’s going to have to do. 

Rick leaves Morty’s side like he knew he eventually would and continues his process of shutting up and grinning and bearing it and gritting and bearing down. He wishes he was dead, feels like he’s going to die from embarrassment, shame. This light, blinding bright prison where he’s emasculated, pathetic and trapped. He manages to open and focus his eyes in between pushes when he feels like nothing’s happening and catches a glimpse of Rick’s face. He knows Rick well enough to be able to interpret the subtleties of his hardened expressions and he can tell he’s worried and it’s scaring him. 

Rick leaves the room and he wants to cry out to have him come back, doesn’t want to be alone right now, even if it’s just _Rick, that’s still somebody._ Thankfully he’s back and this time with a pair of serious seeming surgical scissors and Morty feels his heart pick up at the sight of them, hears it echo on the pulse chart. 

Rick gulps down before he explains what he’s going to do, Morty is terrified when he explains the episiotomy procedure. 

“Look- Morty they aren’t, they’re not gonna come out on their own—” his tone is so clearly panicked and frantic. He wishes he could keep his cool for Morty’s sake. 

But Morty’s _so_ tired now, the words mostly slosh together. He can tell he’s fading out and won’t be awake much longer. Besides, he can’t do anything but let it happen. 

“I’m gonna have to, have to cut-- just a little snip, at, at, at the edge of your--”

Rick looks at Morty, sees his eyelids flicker, hears his pulse slow down. He doesn’t finish his explanation and then he’s cutting into him. 

It’s excruciating, the pain from the literal cutting and tearing of his muscles with scissors. He lets out a long cry, not loud, doesn’t have the energy inside him to be that loud. Rick hears it all the same. 

He finishes the cut and watches the blood river from his skin. And then, as quickly as it all started they fall out of him with a squelching pop, two eggs, large.

Morty’s asshole twitches around the emptiness now, the parts of it he can still control now anyway. He’s still sobbing because it’s all he can do, can’t move, can’t do anything for himself. 

Rick hasn’t said anything, just continues to tend to things around him, incubating the eggs and tidying up. 

Finally he comes to face Morty, their faces above one another. He makes eye contact with Rick, stares him down. His throat hurts from screaming and choking, his body hurts from pushing and enduring: all he has left is his stare. He feeds his hate into it, wishes looks could kill. Rick returns it with a look that’s sad, something far away in his eyes. Morty can’t tell what it means. 

Then, his face is blocked behind his veinious hands holding a mask that he places over Morty’s mouth and nose. Next, he sees nothing except the blackness behind his eyelids. 

****

He feels stupid for not seeing it earlier, regrets that he couldn’t do anything. He spends too many early mornings watching the sunrise these days, regretting all the things he’s done, the horrible life he’s lead. The sunrise humbles him, reminds him of his own mortality, his own humanity. 

He’s not a god: he’d have stopped this from happening if he was. 

He saw the gross and utter details of the alien’s ovipositor sliding down Morty’s throat, and had the _gall_ to be _jealous_ of it. What he wouldn’t _do_ to claw his way down Morty’s throat, knit himself into his bones, a parasite under his skin. To monopolize him completely, inside and out. 

He’s a sick man but he’s probably done sicker. Besides, who’s to say what’s really the worst: things are so relative when you’re used to how cold the universe really is. He’s doing this… _thing_ with Morty because he can, because the universe doesn’t reward selflessness and you have to take what you need to survive. At least, that’s what he tells himself. Not because of the way he feels a little bit lighter when Morty smiles at him, the way he scrunches his eyebrows together when he’s thinking that reminds him of what it was like to have wonder with the world instead of anger and regret. No, that isn’t why at all. 

Rick knows that people notice the way he looks at Morty, like he’s some sort of prey. A shark circling, a tiger lurking, a stepfather giving his new daughter a car. Sometimes he sees something in Beth’s eyes that puts him off, something deeply sad and wonders if she knows, really knows what’s going on here, to the fullest extent. Knows how much pain Morty endures on the daily, knows his vital organs have all been replaced at least twice. But he also wonders if she knows the other parts, the fact that he’s seen every inch of Morty, knows his body like the back of his hand (the robotic one), even his most intimate parts. Knows that sometimes, when he’s not trying to think about it, his mind will drift to the sight of Morty’s body, vignettes of his plumpened, pale thighs, the paunch on his stomach covered with soft brown, tears on the bags under his eyes closed tight in fear. 

But what if she also knew nobody knew Morty better than he did, way better than Beth did. He can’t blame her for being a bad mother, can only blame himself for being a bad father, an ouroboros faulting that goes back to the beginning of time. He wonders if she knows how much Rick needed Morty, not the other way around. 

Morty’s still passed out despite him turning off the gas an hour ago and Rick can’t fault him at all.

He lifts Morty’s unstrapped legs off the table, cradles them gently not to wake him. He huffs out a laugh when he thinks about how he’s only nice to Morty when he’s not awake to experience it but he knows it isn’t really funny. He wipes his lower half down tenderly, sponging alien mucous and Morty’s own blood off his skin and the table. He tends to the episiotomy wound, cleaning it carefully and stitching it neatly, this time taking care to use lidocaine. Cruel, cruel, _cruel_ of him. What kind of quack surgeon doesn’t take time to numb flesh before cutting into it? It’s not hard nor time consuming and could have done it, easily, but he knows he did it out of spite, a punishment against Morty for telling the truth. It’s a twisted set of rules they play by and _god_ Morty’s been nothing if not a good sport. 

He wonders if this is something else he should take out of Morty’s mind, prevent his own further hatred. He sighs when he thinks about how much he’s taken from his memories, how much is _still_ left in his brain and that’s not even the worst of it. 

He thinks about the memories he’s let Morty keep, often comes back to two for reference: one he’d let Morty keep that happened on Mars in a different dimension, and one he’d taken away that happened in the living room in this very house. Bitterly, he recalls a statistic claiming most dangerous accidents happen in the supposed safety of one’s home. It was the first time he’d done something wrong that really sat with him, just a gentle graze of Morty’s thigh under the dining room table. The way he’d looked at you was— exquisite, breath taking. Eyes wide, maybe from wonder, maybe from fear. It’d made Beth’s dinner sit in his stomach like a rock and before he could figure out why he’d snipped it from Morty’s brain before it could take root, do anymore damage. 

He’s had time to think about why it was wrong. He’d replayed it countless times and now, without the help of the helmet, he can remember every last detail from his own perspective and from Morty’s. His pulse, the ticklish sensation of an old man’s hand tracing over jeans that don’t fit quite right, too tight because _nothing_ fits right when you’re that young and insecure. Most of all he can recall the _hope_ , the _desire,_ the _longing_ in his memory, it breaks his heart to think how much Morty just _wanted_ to be _wanted. It’s easy, so easy,_ almost _too_ easy to get Morty to play right into his hands when he’s like this but it comes at the price of Rick’s own sanity, another notch in the long list of reasons he drinks himself to sleep at night and stays up watching the sunrise in the mornings.

As willing as he is to point out the speck in Morty’s eye, the log in his own is much deeper lodged. He loves the attention, lives off it. Morty’s devotion is the air he breathes, the oxygen the trees use to sustain the entire planet. In the same vein, his own carbon dioxide toxins are the ways he uses Morty to his advantage, keeps the boy at an arm’s length, giving him only enough to keep him coming back. But his grandson isn’t a tree, and his life isn’t some bastardized ecosystem metaphor. He can try and twist and turn the narrative to his advantage but when it boils down to it it’s him who needs Morty, _Rick’s_ brain waves that are too big for their britches, _his ego_ that needs petting. 

How much longer can he really expect to keep this up before something snaps? Either within Morty or within himself. With each passing day things get tenser and tighter. Rick worries more about what he can’t say, trying to keep track of what’s a lie and what’s really happened, at least in Morty’s mind.

He decides to let Morty keep this wretched memory for the same reason he’d let him keep some of the other bad memories, like the Mars Incident. To strip him of all hatred would leave him defenseless, something so much more unbearably cruel than leaving him with only the good. 


	2. martian dunes: code red

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> for everyone who asked and encouraged me: THIS IS THE MARS INCIDENT! I had no real intention of writing it but this is what I came up with! Can be read separately but it would be cool if you read both… you know :3c Thank you so much for all your support everyone (esp discord folks!) as always kudos and comments are appreciated! Follow me on twitter @freder1ckfry for more horny heartbreak content! stay tuned for more “rick and morty don’t have sex until they do”!

Two people love each other, it’s complicated and it hurts more than it heals. If Love isn’t enough then what is?

___

It started off as a relatively tame day, the beginning of a journey somewhere, a cold open. That’s always how the memories are in his head. 

It was on the ship, they’ve spent a lot of time on that ship, still do. He always thinks about how cursed that damn ship is. It’s where things can go from bad to good or bad to worse. He can’t count on both his hands and feet how many life changing events have happened there, the sort of imaginary flags that stand out on the timeline of his life: first times and last times, poignant memories, his mark from boyhood to manhood.

He remembers a time like this from a while ago, much earlier on in their relationship: the last twilight of their honeymoon phase. It was the first time he’d realized Rick _is_ capable of hurting him: would do it without repercussion, because he can, because he wants to, because Morty would let him. 

Rick loves to claim _Morty’s_ the moody one, but he’s one to talk. There were times it was good, funny and light with him (god how he cherishes those times, few and far between now). But then there are the times he’s not. 

He shakes his head no, trying to swipe the thoughts from his head to no avail. Morty knows he’s partially to blame. Rick’s right when he says his hormones are out of whack and he knows it makes him annoying. He also blamed his hormones for keeping him up at night, haunted by the thought of pale greyish crows feet and smile lines. But they’re just dreams, Rick would tell him the same thing. 

It’s just stress he knows, tells himself. 

In any event, whatever’s to blame, neither of the two were helping each other very much. 

He stares out the window and looks into the stars. He feels small, and angry about it. He’d started to question his position in Rick’s life, his own position in the world, the universe: not uncommon thoughts for a person on the cusp of adulthood. He supposes he differs from most kids his age: most kids aren’t attached at the hip to their grandpa. Today, Hes particularly angry as he dwells on his tendency towards submission. It’s an awful loop he finds himself in: caught in the torrent between being an individual and wanting validation from Rick. Ever since he’d waltzed his into his life they’ve danced to his tune. Not that his _own_ choices were ever really wise or important but wasn’t there something to be said about having the ability to make your own?

He’s not even _really_ disappointed in Rick, more so in himself for the lightness he feels to know he’s _safe:_ one of the only people in the universe to be _in_ _Rick’s hands_. 

He knows what he should want but— he can’t say his life has been _worse_ since Rick came into it, more exciting definitely, maybe even better. Nothing permanently damaging had ever happened to him, nothing Rick couldn’t just fix later. There’s a feeling of invincibility and power being by Rick’s side brings with, he forces himself not to smile thinking fondly of everything he and Rick have seen and done together: at least it’s servitude with great reward. 

  
  


He’s brought out of his head by Ricks voice, something cool being pushed against his shoulder 

“Here, you need to drink this”

Rick hands him a full-on jug of something, an entire gallon. 

“W-what? What’s it for? You want me to drink all of this?” He uses his most sarcastic voice, hamming up the incredulousness of the suggestion, hoping Rick was bluffing. 

“Yeah, and, and _all_ of it, it’s really important or, or else you’ll _die.”_

Rick’s glare swishes down to assess Morty, half his brow raising. 

He’s using that half-sarcastic tone that still might mean it’s actually something that could kill him. 

Morty eyes the huge container skeptically, wondering how he’s going to be able to drink it all. He does it though, like he always does: conditioned like a dog to do as he’s told. A small but sharp part of him does it because he’s still really kind of scared, on the off chance he _does_ die and Rick can’t bring him back. Mars is only a stone’s throw away by ship so he starts drinking right away, gulping the liquid down.

They land on Mars and, as always, he’s taken aback by the scenery. Everything is different hues of red on Mars, the rocks, the foliage, even the people. It makes him feel dizzy if he thinks about it too long, like he’s stuck in some monochromatic old-time film and he’s the only one who’s real. And Rick too, of course, the only semblance of safety, of finding the way home. 

This particular trip was for diplomatic purposes with the Martian royalty. Morty understood the reason Rick hated talking to them: they were short, shrill and strange and self-deprecating people. However, the princess there reminded him of the way Jessica is in his dreams: kind and smart and bubbly. More unrealistically: she’s always nice and kind to _him,_ goes on and on about her gratitude. That seemed to be a trend amongst all Martians: they always treated him…. Nice, like, _really_ nice. Suspiciously nice. He’d always just assumed it’d been part of their culture, the one Rick had a hand in rebuilding. For some reason Rick had hastily explained, he’d been to blame for the demise of their socialist utopia back to a feudal system and he’d said he felt _responsible_ (read: the closest he would ever admit to feeling _bad_ ) for them. 

But the man was never without a trick up his sleeve: It’d only taken Morty two trips to understand his true motive was to exploit them for their powerful core. Morty knew better by now than to ask the real questions, just the little ones that implied much more.

“So, uh, what are we doing here today?” 

Rick grins, the smile he makes when he’s not letting Morty in on something. His stomach does a flip.

“Oh it’s a b- _buuurp-i_ g surprise Morty, I think you’re gonna like it”.

Rick leans back in his seat, pushes up the control panel of the ship, opting to drink instead of drive. Morty rolls his eyes at the irony of him literally picking one over the other. 

In retrospect, Morty should have noticed he was hitting the flask heavier than usual, kicks himself for not noticing earlier and deciding to play it safe. There’s a lot he could kick himself about for this day, a lot he still spends nights awake, thinking about what could have happened differently. 

But as he’d learned first hand, something not many others can say they’ve done: time is best left alone, what’s done is done. 

They get there after not much longer greeted by a long lush crimson carpet lined with monochrome Martians holding flowers greet him. The township is empty, eerily quiet compared to its usual market bustling.The sight’s so surreal, the vertigo from the overload of red beginning to rear its head.

“What’s, what’s going on here Rick? Why’s it so-”

Rick cuts him off

“Morty, look, Morty! It’s a surprise! We, today, we’re-- there’s a special mission just for you!

Before he can ask any questions, Morty’s rustled along brought down the aisle and adorned with Martian foliage. Alien fanfare plays, twangy and loud, unlike any Earthen key he’s heard. Further down the carpet, he sees they’re being led into the middle of town, more crowds forming the closer they get to the castle. 

His mood is brightened, he’s feeling adrenaline high from the surreality of it all. The Martians are shorter than him, the tallest coming up to his pecs. They’re a happy bunch of people who love to party, despite their brown nosing tendencies. Finally, the wave of the crowd leads him up to the stage, in front of the emperor of Mars, his daughter next to him, the apex of their dance. The cheering crowd goes silent, a suspenseful tone plays. The princess rises from her chair, the audience wowing and gasping in awe. She reveals a striped and pointed paper crown, and places it upon Morty’s head. 

“Behold! The _meimottauschen!”_ The king announces, voice still booming for such a small silly man. 

A curtain drops behind Morty and the lights snap off at once. A primitive version of film starts playing behind him and the music starts back up at once. The audience resumes their raucous laugher, the curtain drop leaving Morty alone on the stage. He’s blinded by bright light from the film being projected onto the curtain behind him, anxiety abundant. He tries to turn to see what’s happening but he’s too close to the picture to see anything. He steps off the stage, into the crowd, the waves of small people pushing and pulling his body, cheering his drinks, shouting, pointing, _laughing._ Finally, he gets far enough back from the crowd, his flight response tittering, heart palpating. Then his heart drops and his eyes go wide when he realizes what’s playing.

It’s him, him, over and over again. Shots from every angle of the mistakes he’d made on Mars, the stupid quests they’d had him do. The realization dawns on him that their kindness wasn’t legitimate, never was. He glances around, panicking, looking for an exit. Clips of Morty play and cover the background on the walls, his fuck ups. He searches for Rick with his still blurred and burning vision. He can’t remember when he’d lost sight of him, but it feels like ages since he’s seen him. He’s nowhere to be found and Morty suspects he’s halfway to the planet’s core by now, taking his fill from the mines. 

As he’d later learn, he’d been crowned the Fool King of Mars for a day, a strange blend of April Fools, the Mayday and Groundhog Day. 

He should’ve known this would happen, he gets his hopes up only to be the butt of the joke once again. 

Morty’s brought back into the wave of people, overtaken by the crowd. He’s thrown about, tossed around, can’t get himself out of the mob. When he finally manages his actual escape back into the foreign red landscape it’s hours later, his ego more than tarnished and feeling sicker.

He comes back to the ship, his crown crumpled and flower strands frazzled only to meet Rick in _already_ there with what they really came for, another material that’s _so essential_ to his work. The bastard’s been _waiting_ for him, probably hadn’t even crossed his mind to come and help Morty out. 

He tries so hard not to let himself think about how much it hurts to be put second to a _thing_ , but there are days, today one of them, it’s all too apparent to him he’s second place. 

He tries not to think about it but it’s hard when it happens so obviously. He’s oxen, he’s a mule, a means to an end: a tool. It hurts to think about, he feels like he’s choking if he dwells on it too long.

He stays quiet in the ship, his face still feels hot with mortification and rage. He refuses to speak, can feel the air between them thicken. He envisions the rays of his anger radiating off his body in fast, red, hot waves and hopes they burn Rick but as per usual he seems to be immune.

“W-whats got your panties in a b _-burrp-_ unch?”

Morty twists to look at him, laser beam glare trying to blow up Rick’s brain.

“What? We, we got what we came for, right? Good, good job buddy!”

He reaches out to pet Morty’s knee but his hand gets slapped away.

“Geeze, _someone’s_ feeling sensitive”

Morty’s livid, feels his face twist in disgust.

“I’m not-- I’m not _being sensitive,_ Rick! You humiliated me in front of, in front of half the population of Mars! 

He’s seething, loathsome, he refuses to oblige Rick’s stupid game.

“You told me you, we-we-we-were just talking about you wanting to try acting, Morty! You always wanted to try standup!”

Morty chokes up and pulls back a bit, his argument loses steam, feels something cold run down his spine. Dread that maybe he did say that but so much more _hope_ that maybe Rick does listen to him sometimes. Right now though, it just feels bad. He’d been uncomfortable since they’d landed, feeling sick from the combination of vertigo and drinking that much that fast. He can still feel it slosh around inside of him from the aggressive crowd passing him along. 

He’d even had to sit through princess congratulate herself on her part in playing the convincing and infatuated damsel, despite his own doubts about her sincerity in the first place.

As if reading Morty like a book, Rick’s voice continues to interject between his train of enraged thought.

“Oh what, are you mad about, that, that princess, Morty? You think _she’s_ into you? Besides, you don’t _really_ like her, you’re just-- it’s just your stupid teenage hormones.

There they were again, his _stupid teenage hormones_. 

“Besides, you’re just like your grandpa: we’re hot on redheads”. 

Morty bites his lip harder, feeling ashamed his grandfather knows his preferences but more so out of growing urge in his bladder. If he’s being honest, he’d had to piss since they were still on the ship on their way _over_ here. It’s the straw that breaks the oxen’s back, the last turn a screwdriver makes before it strips the screw: an explosion Morty’s half, irrational a

What caused it he can’t even say: Maybe it’s that he’s tired of Rick’s tyranny, maybe it was for catharsis, maybe it _was_ just his teenage hormones, that this time he didn’t let it slip back onto the pile of sand waiting to break the hourglass. 

“FUCK- fuck you, RICK!” 

It comes out of him louder than he’s expecting, he sounds lamer, his voice cracks: he sounds broken. 

And then hot tears are welling in his eyes and he’s fumbling with the seatbelt, violently, scared and before he knows what’s hit him he’s being pushed back onto his seat: _hard._

It doesn’t take Morty long to recognize another one of his mood swings from jovial to serious, this time from bad to much, _much_ worse _._ Rick doesn’t often get physical with him, he has to be really mad to do that. 

Or really drunk.

He looks at Rick and realizes he’s had a few too many while waiting in the ship for him to return from the roast. Morty feels sick knowing he’s dealing with a slightly-less-predicatable Rick. 

“Now you, you listen _here_ you little _shit._ Don’t-don’t you _ever_ raise your voice like that to me again.” 

His tone of voice has Morty really scared now, he’d never seen or heard Rick like this, ever. (The second time he’d heard it was the night BirdPerson died.) 

With the hand that’s not holding his shoulder down to the seat he sips his flask, not even looking at it. It’s second nature to him now, the motion seated in his amygdala like the very act of breathing. His eyes seem hazy, the bit of moonlight shining off of them making them glassy. It’s not Rick, doesn’t feel like him anymore, anyway. 

He’s being pulled along before he knows it, Rick’s skinny arms stronger than they seem. He’s getting pulled by his shirt over the ship’s console, rough and awkward. Finally, his body is contorted so he’s over Rick’s lap, stomach down, the collar of his shirt stretched out. He’s too scared to make a sound, doesn’t quite know what’s happening, the severity of this iteration of his grandfather. 

Even despite Rick’s rough handling still making him scared, it’s only a shamefully short amount of time until the pulling when pinching and squeezing and _adjusting_ have Morty hard. 

The moment slows down like in a movie here, he stops to think about everything that added up to this.

It was the most concentrated version of the feeling he knew well, loved even, the lightness of letting Rick take the lead. He hadn’t completely accepted it yet at that point, only allowing his imagination roam free under the covers during the few moments he knows Rick is passed out for at least a few hours. Never even out loud, only in the dark recesses of his mind. At least that’s how he’d started, then the nights (the ones where he’s not out on the town with Rick) he ventures out on his own to find out what’s _wrong_ with him, scouring for an answer, advice, any sort of scrap that can help shed light on the situation.

Soon his browser history changes from

_redhead, cheerleader, high school_ to, 

_femdom, submission_ to _,_

Long dirty words condensed into shame ridden little letters.

Relief lasts all too short those nights, even the nights when he let himself all the way out into the deep end of his gerontophilia: including descriptors like _thin, greying, piercing gaze._ Shockingly few people really look like Rick in the kinds he gets off too: he’s never met anybody else quite like him, still hasn’t. 

He’d always use a private browser, clear his history, take every precaution possible but somehow in the pit of his stomach he _knew_ Rick knew, a fly in his web.

It was before he’d known Rick the way he does now, back when part of him wasn’t sure, didn’t know if he cared about him, always bending over backwards to please him. Ironic that it takes him being bent over Ricks knee to quell that uncertainty. It was this night, this horrible, strange night that would provide the first clue of many that Rick cares more than he lets on.

So when Rick grabs him, his brain lights up instantaneously, the awful gray matter mush in his head betraying him. He’s scared he’s scared he’s scared but _god_ is he turned on. 

Besides, he’s not in any _real_ danger, this is Rick they’re talking about, right? But there’s that _one last iota of doubt_ rearing its ugly head again, the little voice in his head that reminds him he’s _replaceable._

He stretches his neck to try to look behind him but he can’t he’s too far bent over Rick’s legs to see. Then he feels it when he moves, sudden and shocking. Drops of urine leave him and he closes his eyes tightly trying not to let anymore out.

“Ah!” He puffs out, trying to to be too loud, not wanting to risk waking the beast.

It doesn’t even really hurt at this point, only pressure, just the surprise of the movement jarring. He knows though that he has to stop what’s happening before anything more happens. 

He starts protesting now, harmless wiggling against Rick’s strong hold 

“no—please, stop—“ 

Ricks hands make their way under the back hem of Morty’s shirt. His fingers were cold and ticklish on his skin. The other hand reaches around and pops Morty’s button open on his jeans, unzips the zipper. The hand reaches back around and yanks down Morty’s jeans, his underwear too tight still around him. 

Rick laughs under his breath, a light puff of air, he sounds too happy.

Ricks touching turns tender, more ticklish. Morty’s head feels light, below his head. Maybe he’s just dreaming he hopes. He dreams about it too often now. 

He pats Morty’s butt through his underwear, a pitterpatter like he’s playing the bongos. It’s stupid, something stupid drunk or otherwise intoxicated Rick would do, the nice drunk. He tittles his fingers on the curve of Morty’s cheek, a predator before pouncing. 

But then he stops, and out of nowhere hits Morty a bit harder. Not even hard enough to hurt really, but hard enough to hurt but enough to push Morty’s bladder over the edge. A squirt escapes him, feels the warmth on the front of his briefs. 

“R-rick—!”

Morty tries to move but Rick comes back with another spank.

Rick pulls down Morty’s jeans, whacks him again over his underwear

“Why I ought to, this is why you have to _hit_ kids still, knock some sense into them, no, no respect for elder- _rrrrup_ -s anymore--“

Morty’s so beyond confused, Rick’s rambling and in the strangest swing between manic drunken pleasure and sincere anger. It’s like a more condensed form of what they do together, their special dance. The do as I say, not as I do: my actions mean the opposite of my words. A man blessed with genius and cursed with disastrous, Dyonisian drunkenness

“Please, If you don’t stop I’ll--”

Rick pulls down Morty’s last line of defense, his cheeks bared in the regulated ship air. 

“Moorty, M-Mooorty, Mo- _uuuur-_ oooorty..”, Rick chides 

“You’ve had this a long time coming.”

He says it with such clarity he almost sounds sober. 

Morty can feel the air move as Rick brings his hand up and the breeze that’s carried with his palm when he brings it back down. 

Now it stings a little bit, the nip of flesh slapping flesh. He can feel the calluses on Rick’s fingers rake against his own skin, gentle when he rubs it. 

Morty’s twitching now, trying _so_ hard not to leak.

Unexpectedly, Rick brings his hand down onto him three times in a row, _fast_ , and it shocks Morty, just enough to jumpstart his flow”

“You’re grandpa’s boy, you never get too old to spend time with your grandpa--” 

Rick laughs away, seeming not to notice the pooling is warmth in his laps until moments later

He cries out in embarrassment, trying to clench up but it’s too late, he can already feel the wetness on his jeans. 

Rick keeps going at him, whap, whap, _whapping_ away at Morty’s behind until finally he seems to take notice of the feeling of his own pants being soaked, his senses dulled from the drinking.

Morty’s crying now, real catharsis taking him. He should hate it, think it’s strange. He _should_ think it’s strange but why it felt right he wouldn’t know. 

“Mor- what’s wrong Mor—”

Rick Must’ve felt the wetness by then, or maybe it was Morty’s heaving. 

Piss streams out of him, he can’t help it, can’t squeeze his legs shut to stop the flow.

Then he’s crying, hard, tears in tandem with the stream leaving him. It’s the aggregate of everything he’s felt since Rick came into his life: all the shit he’s put up with, all the terror he’s braved, but all the happiness too. Rick picks him up, holds Morty in his arms. He’s cooing and calming now, despite the mess in both of their laps. 

A mass murmuring of _It’s ok buddy_ , an admission: I should have let you go before we left.

Morty’s sobs soften to small hiccups. He hates Rick, he hates feeling damp, but he holds onto him anyway because he’s the only one he has, the only one that understands. Rick had let Morty cling there the entire way home, a gentle type of intimacy. Comfort, safety, a rare show of kindness, the reason Morty kept coming back. 

Thankfully they’d gotten back at night, under the eerie early morning. Rick had carried him up to his room, Morty felt bad about not doing anything but felt too awkward to object. He had put Morty down, his feet grounded in the old familiar shag. Rick had knelt at his knees, his hand tenderly holding the small of Morty’s back upright.

With his other hand he’d brought Morty’s hand back up to his own cheek, then kissed the palm lightly. 

Morty could have sworn he’d heard something along the lines of _Let grandpa take care of you_ tumble loosely out of his mouth. 

He’d slid Morty’s wet underwear down his legs, tossed them towards the laundry. Rick rustles around in one of his pockets and pulled out a pair of underwear Morty hadn’t seen in a while, a pair he’d gotten one Christmas years back as a joke. 

Rick lifts one of Morty’s feet up and slips it into the pair of underwear, followed by the other. He lets the elastic snap against his skin. 

And that’d been it. 

Rick had pushed him into his bed and left the room after it. 

He thinks about it all the time, thinks about what it was, what it could have been. Maybe it was just some roughhousing that went too far, maybe it meant more. Drunken minds, sober hearts. 

He’d dream about that all too often, talking about it not an option. 

Whenever Morty thinks about it, he gets this lonely feeling, his heart tightens like he can’t remember something he really should. Morty’s long since found out about Rick’s manipulation of his mind, and since berated Rick for it. He likes to think they’ve come to an understanding, perhaps he’s built some respect for Morty over their course together. A more cynical part of him doesn’t care: at least he won’t remember feeling angry. 

But his mind always comes back to that one memory, one that feels out of place amongst all the others. Why did Rick let him keep this memory over the other ones? He used to believe Rick didn’t remember the Mars incident completely, maybe he’d been drunker than he let on: so like him to be so self unaware. But now-- he’s not so sure. 

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really hope people understand the title is a Mountain Dew code red reference please sponsor me pepsicola

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Pls come follow me @freder1ckfry on twitter! comments and kudos always appreciated! let me know what you thought!


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